Burning Love
by Uniquely Named
Summary: A one- shot of one young Gryffindor and one recently widowed Mrs. Malfoy, nee Black. For these two witches to get what they desire, a little heat must come before heart.


A/N

This, my fellow potterheads, is a collab with my dear friend beforeyouspeak. I highly encourage you to read her work.

We have been working on this for a couple of weeks (I think, time passes oddly when I work on anything with her) while simultaneously working on other projects. It has been fun!

Enjoy...

* * *

She can't see, only feel what is going on around her. Feel the silk that covers her eyes, feel the hands that peel her clothes away piece by piece, feel the lips that press kisses on her neck, feel the breath that raises goosebumps along her skin; She revels in it all. Moans and whimpers echo out of her chest, quiet at first but steadily rising in volume as the touches get rougher, more possessive. A hand tangling into her hair to yank her head back causes a particularly loud yelp, and not altogether out of pain.

"Such a sweet thing, aren't you?" The voice coos into her ear and she visibly melts.

"Aren't you?" The voice asks again slightly colder, yanking her head further back.

"Yes," she answers.

"Do you enjoy this?"

"Yes," she moans, her left nipple being twisted between skilled fingers as she responds.

"Shall I continue, my sweet thing?"

"Please..yes." Her answer is rewarded with her right nipple receiving the same treatment.

Panting heavily though barely touched, she arches her chest into the hand, begging for more. The witch never imagined she would be in this particular situation. Stretched out, slick, and begging. At the mercy of a woman long considered her enemy. She would pay whatever penance the blonde required for the complications of their past, for the misfortune of having landed on opposite sides of the war. At the time she'd had no idea that she was betraying the one person who would ever truly understand her.

"Are you going to be a good girl for me?" She asks in a demanding, don't fuck with me, tone.

Hermione whimpers at another sharp pull of her hair.

"Don't even think about climaxing until I tell you to. This," she cups a throbbing, ready, center hard for emphasis, "is mine and mine alone."

Just as the brunette's hips begin to lift she is abruptly left and all contact removed, taking the warmth with it. Her ears strain to discern where her enemy lover has gone, but all she hears is a faint whoosh and she senses magic. The anticipation of not knowing what is about to happen sends a tingle down her spine. Hermione is squirming by the time the older witch returns to her. Narcissa swiftly brings down the cat o' nine tails across the girl's taut stomach and watches her reaction happily. Her back arches and she cries out in pleasure/pain. She moves to take off the blindfold only to find that somewhere along the way her hands have been tied down. 'When did that happen?' The young witch wonders to herself before her thoughts are interrupted by another hit followed by a slow caress. The nine thin strips of leather gently graze over the abused skin, eliciting a deep guttural moan from parted lips.

Narcissa trails the toy over her abdomen and ever so slowly down her center. They are lifted away and she places a well aimed smack onto the girl's right thigh, dangerously close to sensitive folds. Her head tips back and she struggles against the bindings, moaning low.

"Filthy girl. Delighting in your torture." She purrs, smacking the left thigh with no warning once again.

"Please," Hermione pleads, "More."

She obliges, alternating between hard smacks and gentle strokes until her entire front and back is painted in red criss crossing lines. The skin is never broken under the blonde's expert care. She uses the perfect amount of pressure to make her just as hypersensitive as she wants her. Testing her skills, she takes a firm nipple between her lips and sucks softly, immediately a whimper sounds above her. Hermione tries to rub her thighs together for friction, but is stopped by firm hands and a near growl from the older witch.

"Don't you fucking dare."

Instantly ceasing her movement, she bites her lip hard, struggling to calm her body. To behave as she has been blonde smiles haughtily delighted that her pet knows her place. Every movement in this elaborate seduction was meticulously planned. The war and her very own sister destroyed the innocence of the beautiful creature panting before her. Narcissa, after the very fortunate demise of her husband, delicately coaxed a trusting relationship into being. Like a mason, she went about rebuilding what was destroyed. She chooses tools of Hermione's heritage from the muggle world. Only in the safety of this room could she deconstruct the young woman and reforge her.

The young, fit, tied body is shaking with anticipation even as her blonde mistress takes a step back to look at her from head to toe. She fears her control is going to slip and she will do exactly as she has been told not to. She much prefers to be played with, as Narcissa is now, but garnishing a real punishment isn't on her to do list this week. The woman fits the Slytherin archetype in every way, she is devious and self serving. And on more than one occasion she has been on the receiving end of a particularly pissed off Narcissa Black. That day she discovered that the blonde frequented muggle sex stores, and it was a lesson she wouldn't soon forget. She was literally unable to sit for a week.

She holds her breath hoping to hear her lover moving. She jumps when a slender naked body presses up against her back. The warm body contrasts the cool skin after being exposed to the air for long minutes. Possessive hands wander to the hot front, lightly dragging manicured nails over the abused skin. Her body undulates under the touch, another shiver running down her back. The things this woman makes her feel are unlike any other; One look, one touch has her reeling, fighting to keep her breathing in check.

A hand reaches between her legs and she nearly buckles. The edge of the cliff looms closer, as she avidly tries to avoid it. It's taking everything in her waning power to stay away. She is caught completely off guard when two fingers plunge into her entrance. Not being able to see is driving her crazy, intoxicatingly so. Hermione grinds her hips back into the woman, moaning loudly. Narcissa removes her fingers and wipes some of the arousal onto the brunette's lower back before licking the rest off, whispering into her ear,

"Dirty mudblood, tastes so good."

Immediately she reenters her and begins pumping her hand. In slowly. Out quickly. In slowly. Out quickly. Repeating several times. Hermione is teetering. And then the fingers and warm body disappear. Hermione groans, feeling the loss in the depth of her soul. Before she can wallow in self pity, a whispered spell releases her arms, sending her crumpling to her knees. She rolls her shoulders releasing what little tension she can with her wrists still bound tightly together. She takes a deep breath, recentering herself. She is on fire, but she always seems to be for Narcissa. The blonde knows exactly how and where to push to get the exact reaction she desires.

"I think I ought to put that mouth to use," the older witch purrs above her. "I just can't decide if you've been good enough to deserve to see me."

There is nothing, literally nothing Hermione loves more than watching Narcissa when she is aroused. Blindfolded she imagines the expanse of creamy skin still untouched by age flushed slightly pink with desire. She wants so badly to stare up into stormy blue eyes as she loses herself in the soft slick thighs.

"Please, Cissa. Please, I'll do anything."

The blonde hums her approval. "Quite right you will, pet. You are mine." She punctuates the statement with a painful twist of a still hard nipple, bringing Hermione right to the edge again. With an overly gentle touch, the blond weaves her hands comfortingly through the brown curls, untying the silk. She knows with the cloth gone, hazel eyes with feast on every bit of her skin making her feel more desired than any other ever has. Feast they do, like a person being fed the first time after days of starvation, drinking in each minute detail of the nearly flawless skin before her. Hazel eyes travel slowly up until they meet the piercing blue of her mistress' stealing her breath. The look in those blue eyes, darkened with heated desire, makes Hermione's insides ignite and she licks her lips subconsciously.

"Open," the blonde demands. Hermione looks at her curiously, blinking a few times before complying. "Wider." Again she complies and opens her mouth wider. She watches wide eyed as the handle is placed between her teeth.

"If you drop this I will spank you with it until your arse is bruised. Got it?" She is answered with a mute nod in the affirmative. "Good girl. Now get up and lay on the bed."

Hermione scrambles to her feet, forgetting any pretense of grace. She settles on her back hoping to be allowed to watch her blonde lover. The sheets, which she knows to be high quality, feel rough against her highly sensitive skin. Firm hands press her thighs apart, again exposing the most sensitive parts of her to the devious blonde. She is rewarded with a bright, if not mischievous, smile for her utter compliance. She watches enraptured as blonde hair is moved to one shoulder and blue eyes focus relentlessly on her throbbing center. The young witch feels as though time is moving slow motion when the red mouth moves and captures her clit. The hot tongue knows exactly how to push her and then back away. She longs for release, but knows it won't come a moment before the blonde wants it to. And her lover knows without fingers inside of her it won't happen.

She groans, the sound muffled by her teeth clamped around the leather handle. The strips of leather hanging off the end brush her shoulder lightly as she moves, arching her hips into Narcissa's mouth. It's just another sensation to bring her to the edge. Having her hold it in her mouth is intended to be derogatory, yet all she can feel is more aroused. Hermione truly is her pet. As she looks down at the blonde head between her legs all she wants to do is tangle her fingers into those long tresses, yet she resists. Blue eyes lock onto hazel as teeth graze her clit and a single digit enters her, teasing her entrance. Hermione nearly cries. She's hovering over the precipice, waiting to be allowed to fall. To be pushed over.

Her mistress raises her head slightly to speak. "Beg me, Hermione. Beg. Now." She slowly rotates her finger inside the girl.

She moans around the handle and bucks her hips, not knowing how to verbally beg with it in her mouth without dropping it.

"Try again."

"Please," she murmurs, "Cissa, please."

A hand runs up her abdomen to palm a breast and she arches into the touch. The older witch slides out her finger, adding two more as she slides back in. Hermione writhes and bites down on the handle at being filled so thoroughly as only her mistress can. She sweats longing much like the first time Narcissa broke her. Meeting the witch that night at the Three Broomsticks was unexpected, and going home with her even more so. But what changed everything was the moment of utter release and peace in being entirely helpless in Narcissa's care. Edging slowly towards the climax she so craved, she couldn't help thinking back to that moment. It was when she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the blue eyes boring into her soul were the only ones she could ever love. That the hands holding her down were the only ones she wanted to touch her.

Soft lips nip at her ear, pulling her from her memories. "I know you love me, pet, but if you don't start chanting my name properly I will leave you here." She increases her pace and pressure inside the girl. The sounds of her name being moaned and tripped over float to her ears, causing just the corners of her lips to turn up in pleasure. "Now Hermione. Come for me now."

The young witch is falling out of control. Her limbs and lungs are no longer listening to her weakly filled commands. During some point in her descent the whip is removed from her mouth so that she can breathe more easily. With a wave of a hand, her wrists are released as she is pulled up into a secure embrace. As she buries her face in long familiar gold locks, she realizes she is crying. Demanding hands still trace patterns on her bare back as a solid reminder of her lover's presence.


End file.
